Assorted Selection of Monsters
by TurboFerret
Summary: This is a set of practice oneshots of TFP universe mechs portrayed doing horrible things or indeed being monsters. Tread carefully, the ratings are in place for a reason ;)
1. Soundwave

This is a set of practice oneshots which I would like to beileve are quite different to my usual material so heed the warning that all the stories involve mechs doing very bad things or indeed being monsters.

* * *

Every bot had a reason for joining the war. Even when from ideological conflict it evolved into a dreary battle for survival some desperately clung to their principles. By this point most sane mecha hated the war though, conversely Soundwave loved it because for him survival started long before the first shots were fired. War was just another aspect of it - an aspect supplying ample amounts of fresh prey. No longer would he need to visit mortuaries to take his fill.

Affiliation had never been a question of ideals or misplaced sense of justice for him - the less scrupulous the faction, the better. So when he heard of Megatron amassing the forces consisting of miners, gladiators and prisoners, he was tempted. When the first reports of Decepticons involved in terrorism traveled over newsfeeds, he was in.

He did not care about the underlying meaning of the political split. Freeing the lower castes and overthrowing the standing order meant nothing to a mechanism such as himself.

The temptation of fresh living energon, large supply of living war prisoners and disregard for troop wellbeing dictated his affiliations.

Of course, that was not what he claimed when he kneeled before Megatron. Soundwave was conscious of how others viewed him. He actively built an image of a standoffish and silent workaholic. Loyal to a fault, only really dangerous when crossed and never engaging in relationships other than professional ones. Few ties meant fewer mechs would take interest or genuinely care. In cases he needed something done he always could fall back on blackmail.

Shockwave, being a scientist, suspected something. Soundwave avoided him to the best of his abilities. The same lack of scruples he valued in masses were dangerous when paired with a sharp and curious mind.

Starscream, being a far more intuitive mech happened to have the right gut feeling about him even if he lacked evidence to actually prove anything. Unless it concerned his own position in Decepticon ranks, he gave Soundwave a wide berth and Soundwave, for his part, never challenged the seeker about his rank, he did not need that kind of exposure.

Megatron was a separate case, Sroundwave theoreticized that he might have even had an inkling but luckily the communications officer was a resource he was not willing to compromise or part with. Who cared if some grunts went missing occasionally.

The violence among the troops served well to conceal his own actions. Gambling was discouraged but not actively persecuted so a lost game of cards was more than a perfect setting. A den full of brute mechs revved up over who was going to win was like an invitation to a dinner party.

Hidden in the shadows he would seek out the mech most disgruntled, the one most likely to have a lapse of judgement. More often than not it ended up being the one who lost, or the one who got most overcharged, or just the foolish one, there was always a weak link.

He could be coy when necessary; he would wait until his chosen target was alone and in distress, approach them, show interest. Some would get suspicious, some would consider that his lithe frame, inviting and pleasing to the optic, could serve as a consolation prize for whatever misery they were in. In the end a mech would follow him to a more secluded area for a round of casual interfacing.

He would always start with an offering; when freely given, vulnerability was highly prized in decepticon ranks. Thus Soundwave would appeal to their ego, let his partners assume a position of dominance.

He would sensually slide to his knees and nuzzle the interface panel in a way many pleasurebots would in hopes of affording their next meal. That always got the victim's engines purring, warming their energon to the temperature Soundwave preferred. Emboldened, they would let their hands roam, sometimes they would grab his spiked helm, stroke it gently and guide his visor closer to the panel or roughly force themselves on him. It was all the same as long as Soundwave got his fill in the end.

Eventually his victim would find themselves overcome with arousal and uninhibited, that was the best moment to strike. Soundwave had perfected his technique over time, should it be in the middle of an interface or by the end of it, he would pause, unlatch the bottom part of his jaw, normally hidden by the visor and attack the soft, exposed components first. One of his data cables would lodge themselves in the victim's throat to disable their voicebox, the other cable would administer an electric shock to the spark to knock the victim into stasis, the rest was just a matter of dismantling armor enough to access and devour the soft protoform within with as little mess as possible. Sometimes leaving just an empty shell of an armor behind.

Nobody would care if the mech did not return, what most would assume would be that they got lucky for the night. The next day the chassis of the poor bastard would be found in an alleyway and the conclusion would be that they got offlined for a couple of credit chips or other such nonsense.

Soundwave made sure he never was caught in the act, being a chief communications officer, it was easy to edit the suspicious data out of the network. Should someone walk in on him, he could easily hack into the systems of an average mech and tweak their memories. On a couple of occasions he actually managed making the unfortunate witnesses take the blame for the act just for the fun of it.

It may have required some time to spin the stories in a plausible way, especially when murders did not match the definition of plain assault with robbery but it was a pain he would gladly suffer if only for the taste of warm mech internals on his glossa.

In his hab suite he glanced at his reflection making sure his armor was in good state without overdoing it. Laserbeak perched on his chest as it was her duty to be on watch. He'd heard some soldiers were going to celebrate their recent successful assault mission in one of the barracks, it was time for dinner.

* * *

Soundwave is an odd mix of a chupacabra and an assassin bug, also, he is a dick.


	2. Arcee

This is a set of practice oneshots which I would like to beileve are quite different to my usual material so heed the warning that all the stories involve mechs doing very bad things or indeed being monsters.

I guess what I am trying to say is "Abandon hope all ye who enter here".

* * *

She scrubbed the red substance off her plating. Even though it did render her plating a lovely shade of purple, the cover was blotchy and it was notoriously finicky to properly get off. It clung and congealed in crevices of her armor and filled the washracks with a coppery scent. Larger coagulated bits floated on the surface of the frothy solvent accumulating in the bottom of the stall. Wheeljack would complain about clogged drains again.

There was a reason mecha were not advised to have anything fragile and soft in or on themselves when transforming. All those pointy, sharp shifting bits and hard cogs did not bode well with soft organic tissue, this was particularly true for smaller frames. Bulkhead had plenty of cavernous spaces in his armor, Arcee had little to none. Whatever came out in the end was minced. And she just Might have jumped the gun and transformed with a human still on board because there Might have been an impending Decepticon ambush waiting for them. A lapse of judgement, who wasn't subject to those?

The sensation of freshly-ground organic matter sliding down her plating was...titillating if not short-lived, probably why she endeavored to experience it repeatedly. The aftermath, however, left much to be desired.

Arcee picked a wire brush and glided it across her back. Ragged strips of flesh stubbornly clung to her winglets. Sinews were elastic and more difficult to cut and hence - tricky to remove but she persisted. The last thing she needed was some bits getting lodged in hard-to reach places and rotting… she shivered.

It had been his fault to begin with - Ian had become boring too fast. He liked her for her speed and how he looked when riding her but repainting her seriously? That had probably been the last drop. She liked her toys liking her, not bending her to their own convoluted idea of aesthetics and no, flame patterns were for the likes of Smokescreen or Knock Out.

She picked a glob of mushy tissue off her cheek - guard and rubbed it between her digits. It clung to the metal and left sappy viscous strings once she parted her fingers. Ian was clingy even after his death, apparently.

The remains of his existence would wash down the drain in the same fashion as his innards did

If Arcee had to be brutally honest though, there was another reason for Ian's expedited demise. She had never intended to keep him forever anyway. Curious if there were any 'flavors' of human personality she had picked human alphabet as a nomenclature to follow for selecting her toys and was down to letter "I".

While unsuspecting Ian was still alive the little twhowheeler had set her optic on a new object of interest starting with human letter 'J' and she was excited about this one - a new location, a different setting. A child of a single parent, still attending an educational institution and working at a fast food restaurant. He rode a bike and dreamt of a motorcycle, extremely convenient. As for close ones and relatives - a parent working double shifts - no siblings, few friends, unlikely to be missed by many. It had been about time for Ian to suffer an unfortunate accident.

She had plans for Jack but not yet. She would not approach him for another earthen month or so, she was supposed to be mourning the loss of her previous human partner after all.

* * *

Thank you for reading.


	3. (Decepticon) Prowl

Hooboy, it has been a while since I've poked THIS nest of hornets. References of violence and Eye trauma, but you probably already knew what you were signing up for when you started reading this :D

Jazz and Prowl are in opposing factions and their work agaisnt each other has evolved into a macabre game for Prowl, forcing Jazz to play along or perish. This is my first Jazz/Prowl fick and the first fick portraying such amount of unpleasantness. Heed the warnings and I'm sorry.

* * *

Jazz cursed, rolling behind another piece of concrete. None of his team had been seriously injured yet but they had been forced to move closer towards the prisoner containment area. Jazz could not help feeling of being toyed with - they were being forced into a corner without much fight by sheer brute force of concrete.

One small part of his processor unoccupied with the battle felt indignant about this. Jazz was the main maestro, he was the one to play around with his opponents, not the other way round. The thought sat uneasily in his tanks.

A suspicious snapping sound dragged Jazz from his reverie and he noticed the slow descent of a slab of concrete that had previously acted as a convenient shield to deflect the enemy fire.

-"Heads up!"

He had restored to yelling because their comms were blocked - courtesy of Soundwave and it was not like they were being discrete anyway. Jazz dove out of the way as the slab descended with a squeal of rebar, dragging with it a cloud of dust.

For one eerie moment Jazz's audios were ringing due to the deafening din. The saboteur covered his audials in agony.

-"Primus Fraggit!"

Covered in dust, vents wheezing, Jazz tried to make out who on his team was ok when he noticed some of his subroutines not responding, helpfully, one of his filtering systems informed him of a presence of a certain compound in the atmosphere before fritzing out.

Nanite-Gas - bad news.

Jazz tried moving but his gyros spun dizzyingly, he leant against the wall for support but his mag-grapplers refused to initiate, other non-vital systems were shutting down, too, together with his optic feed.

Jazz switched to his auxiliary consciousness support - glitchy but still somewhat functional despite the intoxication. He hauled himself up, this had turned to be worse than any of them had anticipated. The dust started settling and through the shimmery haze he saw a group of mecha approach, headed by two door-winged figures… Jazz reset his visor, ah, One door-winged figure, considering that he now saw double.

Seeing double meant he could not aim for scrap but it was likely that if he aimed somewhere inbetween the doubles he might actually hit something.

Settling dust billowed about them, pinching his glossa between denta, Jazz chanced a shot. The recoil sent his gyros whirling and he landed on his back, just in time to avoid the shootout that erupted moments later. As his auxiliary consciousness started failing as well Jazz thought that perhaps he had actually hit something important to warrant such response.

His lack of consciousness brought him back to a place he'd rather not revisit.

-"I like you, Jazz, quite a lot." the mech had purred. -"I adore your duplicity."

Jazz smothered a hiccup when a white hand came to caress his injured helm whilst simultaneously their hardline delivered him to another level of pain, sensitizing all his receptors until the gentle touch burned.

-"You stand by a regimen that claims they are right, that they are in the Just part of this war yet they employ mecha like you."

::Or, is it Meister that gets all the nasty assignments?::

Prowl whispered in Jazz's processor, not yet willing to share This information with the rest of the Decepticon crew. As the head Tactician, Prowl preferred keeping most intel to himself unless it benefitted him somehow.

Wisely, Jazz remained quiet, that cost him no energy and he had to divert all his resources to guarding that last bit of mind which kept the most sensitive data. And it was not like Prowl needed encouragement for his monologue.

-"As you may know, I have also served Justice in my time and for all I know, Justice is blind to the factions. It does not discriminate among Autobots and Decepticons."

A deliberately gentle caress brought Jazz back to the outer world as Prowl traced the thin protoform under his optic.

-"Which is where you come in, darling, I will help you to be closer to the Autobot ideal."

-"Wu-what?"

Jazz sputtered, blue optics widening and meeting Prowl's red ones. He gazed at the captive Autobot with a warm smile that almost bordered on adoration.

-"I'll make you into an icon of Justice for Autobots to worship."

This was the level of Crazy Jazz did not anticipate and despite himself he started struggling against his bonds once again.

-"Hush, dearest, you will be beautiful." Prowl looked at Jazz's terrified face over his high cheekbones, caressing under the Autobot's optics once more, gently, before his thumb eclipsed the blue, glowing iris and pushed inwards.

Jazz screamed and shot upright, venting harshly, frantically feeling for his visor.

Images from his case file of 'Extreme violence' still dwelled in his mind like a wall of looming terror. Prowl had not demanded prisoner exchange with Jazz, Jazz's lax frame was left in a negotiated spot, tied to a pillar to keep it upright. His empty optic sockets tied shut with an energon-soaked rag, streaks of dried blue decorating his face like macabre tears; and what looked like a makeshift scale was tied to his other hand. It was a claim, a declaration, a way of demoralising enemy, and it was far more devastating for those, who knew what it stood for.

Jazz shook himself out of the stupor .

 _Now is not the time for this._

Tucking his panic in the furthest part of his mind, Jazz smirked, he had not accounted for waking up again so there was That silver lining. His processors still sent him angry snarls for doing what he had done but Jazz was too preoccupied with taking in the situation to pay them much mind.

Well slag him twice over with a rusty rod, this was interesting. His captors had deemed it wise to put him in a single cell, no visible doors or windows, no furnishings. No color alteration - the interior could have been a seamless white cube for all it mattered, a single source of light just above him.

Jazz shifted, trying to move only noticing that he had been put in stasis cuffs. Smirking, he fiddled with them and after a little while, the cuffs clattered to the floor and Jazz rubbed his wrists. Unswayed by the seemingly easy escape he traced his digitips against the wall. The stasis cuffs had never been meant to hold him either way. The Decepticon Tactician was far too good and, Jazz had to begrudgingly admit - knew him too well to put his trust into stasis cuffs alone.

The walls seemed smooth and seamless to the touch. Had the slagger actually gone through the trouble to build this for Jazz? 'Structies could sure do that, Jazz had seen some of their more ingenious creations. This was almost flattering, in that creepy way Jazz wanted to have no part of.

At first it was easy to write it down to insanity - already fairly prevalent in Decepticon ranks but after a couple of serious spark-to-spark chats with Smokescreen - enforced and prescribed by Ratchet, Jazz got a new, much more disturbing image of the Decepticon Praxian, he realized that it was probably a bit more than that.

Prowl's interest had started off as teasing on battlefield, leaving Jazz with calculated openings and baits to lure him where the Praxian wanted. In the end Jazz was always let go but he hated to admit that with each time the mech became more forceful and more skilled at getting under Jazz's plating until the last time that had, Jazz hated to admit, permanently scarred him both physically and mentally.

When Jazz had sufficiently recuperated from his last capture, Smokescreen gave him a short intro into Praxian frames and their weak points with a thorough servos-on demonstration.

-"You will want to aim for doorwings, joints, to be more precise." Smokescreen had wiggled the appendages and pointed at the hydraulics behind whose. -"See these? These are super sensitive, pull it out with enough strength and you've got a mech incapacitated, do it lightly and he may think it's a come-hither."

Jazz shot him a look and Smoksecreen shrugged.

-"He's a crazy slagger and you are better off knowing what to hit where and with what intent, especially in Prowl's case." At Jazz's lack of response Smokescreen canted a doorwing his way and pointed into the middle part of it.

-"This here can cause loads of pain but it usually is covered by layers of armor, if you manage piercing it though, you can easily knock him into stasis."

Now captured, Jazz smirked, feeling an energon dagger still nestled snugly along his arm struts. Such mods were usually dangerous for the carrier since the blade could easily pierce energon lines but Jazz managed building in a sheath that permitted him to be somewhat safe, unless his strut was shattered, then he would be in a world of pain and in danger of leaking more energon than one would usually.

Experimentally he knocked on walls to look for a door or hidden panels, nothing - no echoes, no hollow-sounding nooks. Jazz could have chanced kicking through but the walls seemed to have a uniform padding that varied very little - even to Jazz's half-slagged sensitive audios.

The floors, however… Jazz now inspected those for any points of weakness because he fondly recalled using that trick to escape from a poorly-guarded detainment area in some back-corner of the galaxy once and hey, nobody said it would not work again.

And there it was, a lovely rectangular seam, Jazz could work with that!

With newly-found zeal he started to fiddle about the seam to see if the flooring would budge or it anything else would happen, what he did not anticipate though was the tile moving.

Slowly it pressed itself out of the smooth surface of the floor. Jazz sprang back - no flooring seams should be This cooperative.

Jazz crouched low, glancing around with care just in case the room had more surprises in store.

Nothing.

The tile was the only thing that was moving, now much higher above the rest of the flooring. Then suddenly the tile ended and for one surreal moment Jazz thought it hovered in the air. But no, it was just attached to what looked like thick glass.

And then Jazz caught a glimpse of black and white doorwings and red chevron, followed by red optics. For a moment Jazz remained completely motionless as they came face to face - measuring each other.

Prowl stood in what could only be described as a bulletproof container, Jazz crouched on the floor, willing his fight or flight protocols to behave. There was no point in panicking.

-"Do you like it? I had it made it just for you."

Jazz permitted himself a small chuckle and stood up from his crouch, leisurely approaching the structure.

-"Aw shucks you shouldn't have."

Jazz tested if he could touch the glass of the structure by hovering his hand over it, then testing with one finger.

-"On the contrary - how else am I to keep you where I want you?"

Jazz didn't let the words get to him and instead started feeling along the edges of the glass case, looking for weaknesses and points of tension.

-"Your gall at attempting escape with me in the room is astonishing."

-"If this is what ah think this is then you can't do anything ta' me regardless."

Jazz took a running start and barrelled his frame against the glass structure, bouncing back with a swear and rubbing his shoulder.

Prowl chuckled stated in the most impartial manner, -"You are right - I personally can't." Then leveled Jazz with a grin that made the saboteur stop whatever he had been doing.

-"But the room can."

Moments later what seemed to be a mesh wrought from light fibers materialised on one side of the room and swept through to the other end, trapping Jazz in a paralysing grip of a mild stasis lock.

Temporarily shocked, Jazz could only watch helplessly as the container unsealed and the Decepticon tactician stepped out and approached him. Jazz managed only a mild whine when a clawed hand tilted his jaw upward.

-"This is a rather mild punishment, but having you incapacitated was all that was necessary. I can take it from here."

Prowl drew a clawtip over Jazz's sharp jawline, not shy about drawing energon. This situation was unsettlingly familiar and he couldn't help saboteur tensed slightly under the onslaught, attempting to work his jaw furiously.

-"Looking for this?" Prowl raised what Jazz recognized as a suicide pill between his forefinger and thumb. -"I had Hook remove it while you were out. I would not want you to depart from my company so soon."

Jazz vented harshly, visor glowing eerily bright.

Prowl paused, his doorwings twitching slightly. Moments later, a loud explosion shook the base.

Frowning, Prowl turned away from his captive and touched the side of his helm, receiving a comm. Another, weaker tremor ran through the base then and Prowl canted his doorwings suddenly alert about something else moving, much closer to him, in fact, just behind.

He had only a click to turn towards where Jazz had been to see the other mech pouncing at him, aiming for the doorwings.

Prowl swore, Jazz grinned.

-"Ya, Really shouldn'ave done that, Prowler."

Prowl took a step back and somehow sidestepped the attack with an almost comical precision, capturing Jazz's arm in the process and pulling the other mech into a lock. Jazz snarled as his arm was twisted in an unnatural angle, forcing him to drop to his knees.

He went limp, staying still for a moment, estimating where exactly his captor was and then, in a sudden burst of motion he kicked behind himself, aiming for Prowl's ankle. His aim was spot on and the Praxian swore but did not release his hold on Jazz's arm, however his hold changed and that was all that Jazz needed.

Twisting from underneath the Tic, Jazz landed a kick at Prowl's mid-section, effectively sending the other flying. Jazz happily noted a whimper from the other as Prowl landed less than gently on his back. He would not get to those hinges but the other sensitive parts of doorwings were fully at his disposal, Jazz purposefully felt along his wrist girdle for a handle of the dagger and pulled the sharp, thin blade out or his arm.

When Prowl blinked static out from his optic feed and managed reigning in the painful feedback from his crushed appendages, he became aware of two things. One - Jazz was straddling his frame now and two - he hovered what seemed to be an energon dagger just over his face.

-"Never shoulda left ya safe space, _Prowler_." Jazz had a nasty grin as he swayed the point of the sharp tool just above Prowl's left optic with what seemed to be a careless motion.

Prowl narrowed his optics and smirked slightly, recognizing the implications all too well. But he was not going to voice empty threats, Jazz had him cornered.

-"Very well, what is it that you want?"

-"Unlock my T-cog."

-"I can't do that."

To this Jazz's dagger arm lifted and descended sharply. Stabbing pain bloomed in Prowl's left doorwing but the only outward indication of it was the sudden dilation and narrowing of the tacticians optic irises.

That was creepy as slag but Jazz kept his calm.

-"How 'bout we try again?"

-"You might as well kill me here, Jazz, unlocking your T-cog is not within my power to do."

Prowl emanated nothing but unnerving stillness, did the mech have Any sense of self-preservation or any sense of, well, pain?

Jazz straightened suddenly, receiving a comm of his own but instead of losing focus, he just twisted the dagger slightly in the pierced doorwing to make sure Prowl would not attempt anything funny. He and his mechs were being busted out! Jazz made an executive decision to bring a hostage.

-"Ye'r comin' wit'..."

Jazz didn't get to finish as a fist went right for his visor, he pulled back instinctively, hoping that the pinned doorwing would limit the Praxian's range but Jazz hadn't accounted for the Praxian to _knee_ him from the back in the spinal strut, causing Jazz's chassis to arch in reaction and then punching him right in one of his healing injuries.

In order to avoid more damage, Jazz rolled off the Praxian and scrambled for the dagger still lodged in Prowl's doorwing.

Prowl was faster, he pulled the dagger out himself with a wet squelch and in a flurry of energon droplets managed tackling Jazz so that now the Polyhexian was pinned to the ground, arms squashed between the floor and the weight of both of their frames.

The tactician allowed him a moment to merely study Jazz's furious faceplates. The energon kept plip-plopping from the injured doorwing and onto the floor and that was the only sound in the entire cell.

After a moment that had felt uncomfortably long, Prowl smirked.

-"That was painful, though, all things considered, I suppose I owed you one."

After contemplating Jazz's face for a moment longer, Prowl frowned as if remembering.

-"How are your optics, Jazz?"

The conversational tone annoyed the slag out of Jazz, he grit his denta instead of answering and tried to move his visor out of Prowl's reach.

-"This is new, isn't it?"

Prowl smiled whilst tapping on Jazz's visor with the tip of the dagger he'd extracted from himself just moments ago, droplets of energon leaving smears on the blue crystal. Jazz became completely still.

-"I wonder, is it only decorative?"

Prowl proceeded to gently feel and prod around the edges of the visor and Jazz's attempts to get away were becoming more desperate. He whimpered as the other felt for the latches.

-"No!"

Jazz howled, his optic feed cut out, leaving him blind, as the visor was lifted from his now-empty optical sockets, eliciting a soft gasp from Prowl.

-"Ah! I see."

Jazz's protests had reduced to harsh pants, tears of horror pooling in the indented recesses of his face and spilling down his cheeks.

-"They could not replace them after all." Prowl's tone indicated regret even though Jazz was sure he felt none. He felt the other gently tracing the scarred, somewhat numb protoform under where Jazz's optics should have been and traced the rim what used to be an optic shutter. -"Poor thing."

Jazz's frame locked up in fear at the unexpected touch and Prowl used it to pull the mech into a careful embrace that belied their previous interactions.

-"Hush now, I was a bit too rough on you last time but I can't deny that the consequences have left you more beautiful than ever, my Jazz."

After a moment of silence Prowl added.

-"There is something I want."

Jazz's fuel lines turned into ice, he knew Exactly what these words meant and that if he did not comply, he would lose more than his optics this time.

-"Please don't."

Jazz hiccuped and whimpered and despite himself, curled into a tight ball, trying to cover his face.

-"Shh, it is not related to our factions, in fact, it is quite personal in nature."

Prowl mused, rubbing Jazz's audial horn affectionately between his fingers, seemingly heedless of how terrified of him the saboteur was at that moment.

-"I have grown to like you quite a lot, Jazz."

Prowl almost whispered the name as if talking to a lover. The frame in his arms tensed significantly, then shuddered, and after a bit, a silly giggle escaped before Jazz could stop it.

This was insane, Prowl was insane, Jazz was dead and in some sort of Cybertronian Hell because the ridiculousness of the moment just did not compute.

-"Is tha' a new way o' torture?"

Prowl Actually took a moment to consider this.

-"It could be, if you'd be so inclined."

Jazz just burst into uncontrollable laughter, slag him, truly, slag him because he wanted no more part of this clusterfrag.

-"Jus' offline meh already, mech. Ah can't take this no mo'." Jazz said through giggles that were gradually turning into sobs.

Though Jazz stopped immediately when he registered movement about his face; caught in that terror once more only to feel visor click back in place with more care than he wanted to admit and after breem, his optic feed came back on.

The closeup of Prowl's face was the first thing Jazz saw and instinctively he drove back from it.

-"I expected our first conversation on this topic to go like this but I do enjoy the sound of your laughter."

Jazz felt sick to his tanks and internally withered at the implication that More conversations like this were in foreseeable future but perked up when he heard the noises of blaster fire coming closer.

-"I will let you contemplate this for a while." Prowl then stood up and opened a panel on his arm to activate a door built into one of the walls.

-"But for now you should join your rescuers.. Oh, one last thing, next time you check your firewalls, do so in private..."

Prowl might have said more but Jazz was already out of there and making his way towards the rescue team to help get the rest of his team out.

Later that night when Ratchet released him from the medbay, T-cog blissfully unlocked, Jazz ran self-diagnostics on more volatile parts of coding. Doing so in his locked quarters was somewhat safe - getting out required a code as well as getting in and it was generated randomly, based on Jazz's personality credentials. Hence, if anything happened, he would not be a liability and his mechs had override codes if it came to that. Thus calmed, Jazz started with the work because Prowl tended to leave him little 'presents' or tokens of appreciation in shape of puzzles, more often than not - woven with Jazz's own coding taken from subroutines which were meant to keep him functioning.

This time he stumbled across a patch of rather benign-looking code that just looked corrupted, a typo here, a missing dot there. Suspicious, Jazz started trying to compute the extent of it when he nearly triggered an automatic reconfiguration pattern. This was Prowl's work.

Jazz tiptoed around the trigger string as if it was a bomb, careful not to initiate anything.

He HAD to get this out of his system. Jazz's frame started heating up from mental exertion, coolant beading his frame. His cooling fans came online.

Suddenly the code recalibrated itself into a small data packet. Jazz didn't have a moment to do anything about it because it apparently activated on it's own or rather, Jazz suspected that it was somehow linked with the subroutines of his cooling systems - not the first thing Jazz would go for during his check.

 _That damn bastard._

Soon Jazz was glad he had opted for privacy of his quarters and not somewhere public because his sensors were suddenly awash with feelings of touch skittering down his frame. Something that felt suspiciously like a lick slid down the hydraulics of his inner thigh cabling, moving upwards to lave his panel.

 _It's not there, it's not real, it is just ghost data._

 _Was it?_

A whimper that Jazz recognized to be his own echoed in his chamber as the assault continued. His already heated plating becoming even more so, arching his back, mouth open in a silent scream.

This was not him, the desire was not his, but it slotted oh so well with his coding. He yelped and shivered when what could have been only described as a sensation of an overload assaulted his senses, teasing his own systems to follow suit but failing to do so, leaving Jazz instantaneously revved up with his only option being to just get down to it and finish the business himself.

Gritting his denta and using his hands, Jazz did just that and dropped back on his now moist berth, panting in exhaustion.

This was new, scratch that, the majority of sensations Jazz had been exposed to were not Like data transferred from another mech, he would know.

That type of thing felt foreign and regardless of the quality of the data one could always tell a difference between oneself and the other. This felt disturbingly like someone had jacked into Jazz's own unconscious frame and recorded it from the inside, and… Jazz shuddered.

-"I'm gonna _kill_ ya, Prowler."

He murmured to the ceiling of his chamber.

* * *

Yep, I went there. 


End file.
